


Snowfall

by Kasparovv (slytherintbh)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Christmas, Yule, just fluffy nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 14:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17326355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/Kasparovv
Summary: Just a real sweet fluffy gift for my friend lucylisy. Merry belated christmas!!!!





	Snowfall

Well, Xeph has been insisting that he’s not interested in Yule for at least the past month, but to Honeydew this simply isn’t acceptable. He, at least, has a nostalgic reason for celebration - even in the heart of the dwarven cities they’d found the time to honour the peak of midwinter in their own way. Food cannot be dug out of the hollow earth like precious minerals. So they would hide away a ready stock of vegetables and meat and feast on them as the snow drifts held their gates shut, trapped in until the spring melt when the world became hospitable again. 

They aren’t trapped deep in the belly of a mountain this time. Instead they’re trapped in their little house, watching the snow fall thick and fast, as it has been for a good few days now, the sky taking an occasional breather to sit in ominous darkness. The carpet of clouds is unending and sprawls out in every direction. 

Honeydew pulls his boots on during one such break, wrapped in as many layers as he can manage while still being able to swing his axe. He ekes a path out of the front door, scowling when the snow tries to enter, sitting a good foot and a half off the ground. He’s lucky that the older snowfall has hardened over the cold nights, or it’d be up to his beard. 

It’s perfectly silent outside. Observing the heavens, Honeydew finds only the clouds and a glow in the distance that could be the sun. 

He waddles round the side of their house and finds the woodstore, half-empty, the topmost logs absolutely soaked through. No good for burning. With a sigh he shoves them aside and fishes out something drier - seasoned pine, it’s been sitting in wait for a year at least, chopped by Honeydew himself in the spring. Perfect. Smells lovely in their woodstove. He grabs a generous armful and waddles back to the door, shoving it open, overbalancing and letting the wood fall to the ground with a clatter.

“Dew?”

Xeph appears in a heartbeat. Talk about hair-trigger response. He’s bundled in a blanket, fingers stained with ink, eyes wide with unconcealed nerves at the unexpected interruption.

“‘M fine,” Honeydew insists, struggling to shut the door as the snow pushes back. Xephos adds his admittedly minimal weight; eventually it clicks, although the floor is covered in half-melted slush. “Was just getting some wood.”

“I can see that.” 

“How's the writing?”

“Slow.”

Always slow. Xeph is such a stickler for accuracy that he'll scrap a whole chapter over a single forgotten detail. Last he checked, Honeydew had found a mountain of notes on BBQ bay. It's an odd pastime, writing a book that nobody will read, but if it helps - eh, who's he to judge. Honeydew has his own outlets.

They pile the pine into the woodstove, leaving some to the side for later burning. Xeph disappears into his bedroom and reappears with an armful of crumpled papers - notes turned kindling in a moment of need. It takes a moment for the spark from the flint and tinder to catch, always tense, until they have a crackling stove. It's a damn relief to feel the wash of heat.

“If you start on dinner I'll be out soon,” Xeph says. “I was just working on a tough bit.”

“Alright. I’ll come get ye.”

In spite of himself, Honeydew has thawed out their last chicken and left it to roast slowly all day, discreetly setting a pot of broth out to stew. If he’s learned anything from Daisy, it’s how to cook, things that make him blush notwithstanding. Should almost be done. And given how Xeph hasn’t emerged from their bedroom all day till now, it’ll be a surprise.

He pulls off his boots and trudges through the house. Simple, wooden, entirely the opposite of the cave they took refuge in years back. They built it one spring when the weather was mild and they’d had enough of Mistral City. Just… upped sticks and felled what felt like half a forest before Peculier had pointed out that a plan was usually a good idea. In the end it unfurled easy as a bud. Never have they had such an easy time with a build. Honeydew doubts they ever will again. He loves their home, much as it’s the polar opposite of what he grew up with, and he kinda hopes Xeph doesn’t get itchy for change.

Having nothing to really do and rather glad for the fact, Honeydew sits in front of the furnaces and waggles his feet from side to side. Smells fuckin’ delightful, if he dare say so himself. If he can't have his old forms of celebration, he can have this, at least. Through the window a single brave snowflake darts to the ground, a scout for the flurry that quickly follows it. Before long it’s thick, and fast, and Honeydew is grateful he went out when he did - this weather could continue for a day, at least. Using coal is an option but it smells awful and clogs up their burner. More likely that they’d just bundle up in the blankets they made and drink a lot of hot water. Xephos’ blanket is much nicer than Honeydew’s, purely because Honeydew did not have the patience for Daisy’s knitting lessons, and Xephos can be weirdly proud about crafts. 

Peering into the furnace reveals a chicken that looks very thoroughly cooked, an immaculate crisp brown on the outside, and worthy of salivating when Honeydew shoves on his gloves and pulls it onto the counter. He gets out the carving knife, sharpens it on a stone, and gives the poultry a cursory slice. Nothing raw. Good. It’s just a matter of hoisting it onto the main table (tough, for someone of his stature, not that he’d ever complain), struggling with the excessive weight of the broth pot, and laying some plates. They’re leftovers from some house in Mistral and they could really be in better condition… he scowls at the nicks and chips that line the rims. 

It’s way, way too much food for two people.

Satisfied, Honeydew hurries to their bedroom. He pushes the door open with a persistent creak. As ever, Xephos is buried in his work, a curved figure made small in the corner of a meagre room, desk barely more than some logs piled together. Everything in their bedroom is roughshod and wooden, from the bed to the shelves to the walls, red rug underfoot. There’s a few drawings hanging on the walls, mostly of them, and even some curtains made out of someone’s old dressing gown. Amazing what you can do with people’s old belongings.

“Dinner’s done,” he says, and smiles when Xeph stretches out like a cat, padding at the ceiling and cracking his back.

“It smells great.”

“Thanks, pal.” 

Xeph’s eyes widen at the sight of the table laden with all its goods; Honeydew can see the barely restrained urge to ask why the hell they’re going through the best food they have, and the simultaneous need to chow the fuck down. The latter wins. Even as the drift outside worsens they fill themselves to the brim with the hearty meal, words barely passed between them, motions partnered with the occasional clink of cutlery and requests for the salt bowl. By the time Xephos throws his hands up in defeat, there’s still a bit of chicken and half the broth left in the pot. 

“Eh, we can eat those tomorrow.” Honeydew feels like a goddamn barrel. Walking must surely be impossible. He pats his admittedly sizeable tummy and grins. “That was fuckin’ excellent, if I may say so meself.”

“You may,” Xephos agrees. His cheeks are flushed from effort. “Don’t think I’ve been this full since that summer picnic. And it tasted great. Thank you, friend, although I don’t know what I did to deserve it.”

“Heck, it’s midwinter. Gotta give yourself some pleasures.”

But Xephos isn’t convinced by his friend’s casual tone. “Is this Yule again?”

Honeydew sighs, taps his plate. “Don’t know what it matters. It don’t have to be. I just like to do something for the season.”

A flicker of guilt shadows Xephos’ face, momentary and easily missed. He bites his lip. Honeydew follows his gaze to the window, now an indistinct blur of white and the purple-blue night that’s stolen over the heavens. “Go get my blanket out and get settled in the lounge,” Xephos says, oddly direct. “I’ll be with you in a second, alright?”

There’s no point in arguing it. Honeydew manages to waddle off his chair and gathers up the woolen blanket, plopping himself down in front of the woodstove, which has settled into the perfect rosy glow. He can hear Xeph clattering about with the dishes, then stomping about the house. A wonderful suffusion of burnt pine scent has filled the room. Honeydew is half asleep by the time Xephos is done, and wakes only at the quiet chuckle announcing his entry.

“You alright there?”

Honeydew scoffs, wiping his eyes. “Excuse a dwarf for bein’ sleepy.”

“Tetchy. Budge up and give my some of that blanket, would you?”

Honeydew does so. Xephos snuggles up to his left, head dropping to rest against Honeydew’s hair. They sit in silence for a while, until the crackling of the logs drops to a near silence. 

With a shuffle, Xeph seats himself upright and scratches at the back of his head. He opens up the lapel of his jacket and reveals a package, tied in simple brown paper and wound with string, which he deposits in Honeydew’s lap with all the grace of a cat gifting a dead mouse.

“For you,” he says.

“What for?”

“It was gonna be for your birthday but, seeing as today’s apparently celebratory…” Xephos shrugs. “It was finished anyway. So. Open it.”

It’s suddenly the most important thing Honeydew has ever had. In painstaking movements he pulls the string away and opens the paper without a single tear, setting it aside. He is left with a book. It’s bound in red leather, decently thick, and pre-thumbed, as though read fifty times over. He gives Xephos a quirked eyebrow before he opens the cover.

_ For Honeydew. _

That’s all it says on the first page. His heart has taken residence in his mouth. Without daring to look at his friend he turns over the page again.

_ The day dawned bright, bright as ever, but unusual. Even as the sun rose on the horizon and the birds sang, two heroes slept on the warm sands of a hidden beach, at that moment a secret even to themselves - for when they woke it was with the surprise of a newborn. Fate led them to blink into consciousness one after the other. And when they set eyes upon each other, fate already knew their names. _

“Xeph -”

“I know it’s not, well, fancy, but -”

Honeydew flips through the book. Every page is written in his friend’s most painstaking script, and while that is still not the neatest, it is obviously meticulously done. Written with love. 

“I don’t have a gift for you!” Honeydew whines. “And you spent all that time writing this for  _ me?” _

“Well… yeah?” Xephos chuckles. “Who else? I thought it would be nice to look back on, you know, when our memories aren’t so good. We might be invulnerable but I feel like it’ll have to fade eventually.”

_ The Spaceman was the more confused. He knew nothing of how to live in such a world, where the land was wild and fertile, and he followed his dwarven friend in search of guidance as they explored. _

“You bugger.” At that, Honeydew has to wipe his eyes. “Yer sweet.”

“You like it?”

“I bloody love it.”

This is the right thing to say. Xephos’ face breaks out into a sparkling grin. “Back home we had a similar celebration of the winter months, although we called it something different. I never was that fond of it. Got a bit too manic as you got older. But I always enjoyed the atmosphere. And good food.”

“Reckon we have both.”

“Reckon we do.”

“I wish I’d made ye something, now.”

“The dinner was more than enough. Although, really, a whole pot? We’re going to be eating that all week, you realise.”

Honeydew scoffs. “We just ate our last chicken. We’re gonna hafta skimp a bit, pal.”

Xephos merely shrugs, and rests his head back atop Honeydew’s. It seems to be a favoured position of his. He takes Honeydew’s hand and squeezes it. “It’s nice to be here,” he mumbles. “Not fighting or worrying or sleeping rough. Just having a home.”

“Sure is,” Honeydew replies. He can feel his friend’s breathing slowly start to even out. “Sure is.”


End file.
